A freak show in orange.

"Have you been there yet?"

Is was the same question each time, Shaolin Temple was always the place in question. Each resident wanted to know.

Zhengzhou has little to offer to the tourist, but the country's kung fu center is its one and only. Even Shaq felt it worth a trip. And yet it's not even in the city. Kung fu fighting monks wouldn't do that. Shaolin, rather, is a little less than a two hours drive from Zhengzhou, tucked away in a mountain range that suddenly pops out of the spring green fields in the matter of minutes. Poof, there we were.

And with that gray, unexpected mountain came the city. A small, even grayer mess made of tiny warriors-to-be. Young boys in a wash of neon orange or red, whatever the uniform color choice of the day, lined up in precision cut formations throwing punches, undercuts, or high kicks in a dance-like routine. The training schools swished by our van's windows in a colorful blur. Each motion controlled to perfection; yet I, on the other hand, barely had enough discipline to finish my book.

The van stopped and a green larger-than-life monk statue greeted us properly, welcome, you're about to get your ass kicked, it spoke to me. The mental prowess of the kung fu mind can do that.

We rushed inside. We had shows to attend, according to our stern English-speaking tour guide. The school always provided one, but usually the xiaojie, or miss, only spoke Chinese and had to be translated through one of the school's teachers, back to us. This was a change, but then a look around and I could see a German and Italian tour flag fluttering among the dark-haired Chinese. Certainly, Shaolin was on the tourist's trail.

And for good reason, Shaolin, though certainly touristy, is cool. Monks that can stand upside-down on just two fingers to a hand, well, that is just freakish and worth a coo, or two. Climbers behold. These monks were like monkeys on flat land, but after 5 minutes into the show. I could imagine if they took to the nearby mountain, they could climb that just as rapidly, moreover, even with show-like performance finesse.

That's the thing, it's all a show, more perfected than the boys throwing punches outside the great center's gates. These guys, and they can only be guys, are the best, more practiced than any sport I've ever conditioned myself to. They wowed the crowd easily.

The life of a monk is constant dedication. However, a kung fu fighting monk is importantly different than that seeking pure religious fortitude. A kung fu monk can eat meat and marry a girl. I fell into a daze of fascination, another victim to the power of the crazed feats: a back bend propelled by the suction of a cup, a balloon popped through a shield of glass all by a thin needle, and more back flips and high-air kicks than I had the energy to continue photographing. The final bow came and the 1 o'clock show ended. These boys had one weird 8-5.

We continued around the complex, a vast maze, the possibilities are actually quite fascinating, including a cart ride up the mountain. I could have stayed much longer. But after the obligatory sights, as our guide told us, you haven't been to Shaolin until you've seen this; a stone engraved with a large monk. Eventually, our minds turned to food and leaving.

And we were Christened, we became Zhengerzhouers, properly.